


A Seraph Burning

by Vegan_Venom



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Era, Ficlet, Jealousy, M/M, Sad, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 02:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10479873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vegan_Venom/pseuds/Vegan_Venom
Summary: Grantaire witnesses an intimate moment between the group's chief and its guide, and somewhat painfully realises that the object of his affections may be more human than angel after all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a sad little ficlet I felt like writing today, because apparently I want to see Grantaire hurting.

Grantaire has little control over the direction his life takes, and he has long accepted this. Perhaps his path is dictated by God - or by the gods of Olympus, whom Grantaire personally prefers - though he has little faith that his life is worthy of divine interest. Or maybe instead he is an empty bottle dropped carelessly into the Seine, floating lazily down her length until by chance he's snagged by an overhanging branch or buffeted by an escaped outpouring of Parisian sewage. 

Grantaire graciously lets himself wash further downstream, but that does not mean he closes his eyes to where he is at any point. The journey may be rough, but the view is often pleasing.

Enjolras is stood in the middle of the café, boyish figure taut with barely restrained fervour, girlish features flushed pink with anger, and godlike curls forming a golden crown to advertise his indisputable glory as he addresses those gathered. Grantaire longs to run his grubby fingers through those soft blond locks, perhaps tugging them a little to see if he could unlock some of that holy fire. He would gladly risk being burned if it meant seeing that hair made wild by his hand. But a seraph is pure, seeking only to fan the flames of passion and faith in mankind, not sully himself with their sin.

Grantaire takes another long gulp of his wine instead, then splutters as it takes the wrong path down his throat, and he stains his shirt and waistcoat crimson with his coughing. How many has he had tonight? Beyond counting, and likely a little too much if his drinking skills - the one act in which he can normally claim competence - are now failing him. When Grantaire finishes inelegantly mopping his chin with his cravat, he notices that the room is now quiet. Being a little too far through this bottle to follow Enjolras' arguments tonight, Grantaire had been more than content to let Enjolras' commanding voice, and not his words, arouse his spirit - though not in the revolutionary sense their leader no doubt wished for. But now the absense of those lilting tones is conspicuous, and though the other patrons of the café continue their ruckus, the room is somehow colder. Grantaire raises his head, and when his blurry vision clears he sees Enjolras glaring in his direction, severe eyebrows and burning eyes carved out harshly against soft skin and long eyelashes. Grantaire cannot help the stirring low in his belly at being subject to that gaze, and he wishes desperately that his hands were still steady enough these days for sculpting, or indeed any kind of fine art. 

The statue speaks to him: "Are you quite done?", but the impatience, disdain and lack of care for Grantaire's wellbeing in his tone is of little importance. His words are of little importance. Grantaire basks in the attention bestowed on him, lets it warm him to his toes, and smiles lazily. But then he sees Enjolras' focus start to slip away, eyes flicking over to Feuilly, with whom he had perhaps been previously conversing. Grantaire does not wish to lose this scrap of his regard, negative as it may be.

"Please, do not let my near experience with death by wine interrupt you. No doubt you were discussing matters concerning men more deserving of life than I." It's a deliberate barb, meant to stick into that pale flesh so that Grantaire might reel him in and command his attention for a time. And Grantaire sees that the man is baited, forehead creased and lips pursed in preparation for an angry retort, but his plans are threatened by Combeferre, who places a steadying hand on Enjolras' shoulder. Enjolras sighs, immediately calmer at his friend's reassurance, and begins to turn his back to the drunkard. Grantaire needs his attack to cut deeper.

"Of course, return to your plotting for revolution. I can hardly wait for this ideal world, where we have absolute freedom and equality for every man, of course so long as he is born French and to a respectable family, is a man, has means and an education, is clear of mind and free from vice, is..."

"Yes, thank you, Grantaire." It is Combeferre who interrupts, much to Grantaire's disappointment. "You make some good points. In fact, Feuilly was just discussing how we might start a fraternal society to help educate those groups which you say we exclude, so that they might take part in their own revolution."

Grantaire thinks of arguing about how condescending it seems to educate women and the working classes on their own oppression, a point for which Grantaire does not particularly care, but Enjolras would. However, with the man's attention lost it is not worth it. Enjolras is now turned completely towards Feuilly, and as the conversation continues without him Grantaire returns to his drink.

Some time later, Grantaire is awoken from his stupor by some inconsiderate heathen shaking his shoulder. Grantaire keeps his eyes squeezed shut, and tries to will his dinner to stay down. 

"Wake up, man," The voice is Joly's, and it would be a command but for the edge of anxiety creeping through as usual. "You'll develop a crooked spine if we allow you to spend the night in that position."

When his friend does not cease the movement, Grantaire gives in and opens his eyes. The crowd in the café has greatly thinned out, though those that remain are attempting to make up for it with their volume. It is doing no favours for the pain in his head.

"Thank you, Jollly," he says somewhat sarcastically, though his friend beams as though he were genuinely grateful for the wake-up. "I promise you that I will find somewhere more agreeable to sleep. A woman's mattress, if at all possible."

Joly laughs, tapping his cane against the floor as if to underline his mirth. "I think you may be a mite too inebriated for seduction, my friend."

Grantaire attempts to stand, and when he has to take a moment to stop the world from swaying he feels inclined to agree. "You may be right," he concedes. "But if you will excuse me, I need to empty out some of this wine."

Joly stands aside to let him go past, and Grantaire stumbles through the room, somehow making it down the stairs without tripping, and finally finds himself in an alley around the back. Without even checking for possible onlookers, he clumsily unfastens his trousers and relieves himself against the brick wall opposite. No doubt he is splashing against his own boots, but he cannot find it in himself to care. 

As he finishes the job and makes himself decent again, he becomes aware of voices on the main street, perhaps six or eight feet away. Their footsteps were no doubt masked by the sound of liquid hitting stone, and since Grantaire is well aware of the dangers of Paris at night, he reaches for the knife he sometimes keeps hidden on his person. Alas! It is not there. Had he left it in the Musain? Before Grantaire has time to panic, he recognises one of the voices as Combeferre. He is too far away to make out any words, but his curiosity is piqued. If he were being honest with himself, he'd acknowledge the possibility that a certain person might be Combeferre's conversation partner, as he often is. But Grantaire does not overthink it, and merely moves up the alley, closer to where it meets the street.

"...when you are mocked. In any case, I do not wish you to walk home alone." Grantaire has caught the end of one of Combeferre's concise lectures, judging by his tone.

"I am grateful for your concern," Enjolras says, and Grantaire cannot resist ducking his head around the corner to catch a glimpse of the man. The two are standing close, shoulders hunched against a chill Grantaire cannot feel despite his lack of coat. Enjolras looks somehow sad, a vulnerability in his eyes which has Grantaire retreating his head so that he can no longer see. It feels like a violation, to see an angelic warrior without his armour. 

"Though do not be overly worried about his effect on me," Enjolras continues. "You know that I value your opinion above that of any other man."

"You do not dispute my point," Combeferre argues. "You care very much about what he thinks of you."

Grantaire pops his head around again, wondering if seeing them will help figure out the unnamed subject of their conversation. But he is distracted by the sight of Enjolras plucking Combeferre's spectacles from their perch on his nose and buffing the lenses with the corner of his cravat. Combeferre does not appear surprised by the familiarity of it, and Grantaire wishes fiercely that he were worthy of such easy friendship with Enjolras, and furthermore that he had eyesight poor enough to correct so that the action might be repeated on him. 

"I care for his opinion as much as I care for the opinion of any citizen of France," Enjolras says after a moment of heavy silence, and moves onto the other lens as Combeferre squints at him.

"I want to believe you," Combeferre replies carefully, and the "but" which would doubtlessly follow is cut off by Enjolras replacing his glasses. His hands linger there for a while, supposedly adjusting the fit though it cannot take so long. Both men are frowning.

"You have it wrong, my friend. I know that this is new between us, but you are seeing problems when there are none."

"I wish I were," Combeferre says, and leans forward to press a firm, sad kiss to Enjolras' forehead. Grantaire barely has time to be envious of that action before Enjolras pulls Combeferre forward again by the back of his neck, and surely Grantaire is hallucinating, he _must_ be, because the two men are kissing there on the street. Not Romantically as one good friend to another, or even romantically as a man might kiss his fiancée, but _passionately_ , and with far more passion than Grantaire has ever received from one of his mistresses. 

Their lips press together tightly, wetly, parting slightly before diving back in at a different angle, knocking Combeferre's newly-cleaned spectacles askew when they do it again. Breaths come in short bursts through their noses as they kiss, as though their desperation cannot allow them to be parted for long enough to breathe through their mouths. Enjolras keeps a firm grip on the back of Combeferre's head, and Combeferre lifts his hands to grip onto Enjolras' red coat. Grantaire stupidly wants to tell Combeferre to put his fingers in those golden curls, to mess them up as he himself longs to do. 

Finally they part, panting. Enjolras' lips look soft, red and inviting, and the angel has never appeared more human than he does now. Grantaire envies Combeferre with a furious ache, one that might compel him to violence if Combeferre were not exactly the patient and kind lover Enjolras deserves. 

Enjolras and Combeferre are still standing there under the streetlamp, smiling gently at one another, and Grantaire decides to torture himself no longer. He turns around and heads back down the alley, away from the love being shown behind him, and wanders the streets without direction. Life will take him wherever it wants to, and Grantaire gladly surrenders control.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me how much you hate me for making all of them sad on here or on my [tumblr](https://veganvenom.tumblr.com/).


End file.
